


it leads me (to where you lie)

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Grief/Mourning, If you squint your eyes and turn your head, Kinda canon compliant, M/M, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, set post-s3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 06:24:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16989711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: Did it mean he loved his husband any less, because he hadn’t been willing to kill for him?





	it leads me (to where you lie)

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'Even in Death' by Evanescence. 
> 
> ...as always, I own nothing and am forever wanting to show my love for Wainwright/O'Laughlin. :)

Staring down the engraved slab of concrete, standing out amidst the freshly barren ground, Luther Wainwright pulled the dark peacoat closer to his body by tugging at the lapels. Chilled by the steady drizzle of rain and the general lack of sunlight, Luther couldn’t help but shiver. Hearing the crunching of leaves had him turning his head slightly to find Lorelei Martins, who held a bouquet of various flowers close to her chest. She said nothing to him, until after the bouquet of flowers rested as her feet.

 

“Whatever would your future employers say if they found you, the boss-to-be, sulking around a murderer’s final resting spot?” she asked, a smirk on her lips as Luther grimaced.

 

“Fuck off, Martins,” Luther answered, his response without its usual bite to her snark. The brunette in red shrugged, before she moved to glance down at the tombstone.

 

“I personally thought _Craig O’Laughlin-Wainwright_ was a mouthful anyway,” Martins continued, her focus on the engraving. “If she had killed him two days from now, do you think we might have seen _loving husband_ instead of only his death date?” Luther couldn’t help but clench his fists, whilst his stomach twisted. Martins had never approved of his relationship with Craig, as she believed _he could have done so much better_. “How did it feel to see his redheaded whore of a woman…?”

 

“Martins,” Luther interrupted, as he eyed her. Martins continued to smirk. “Aside from playing balls with your _master_ , you and my husband had little in common.” Martins lost her smirk, before Luther turned away from her. Although it had pained him to understand that Red John typically enjoyed bedding his friends, he hadn’t been able to dissuade his husband from participating.

 

“If Craig hadn’t been so sickeningly in love with you, you wouldn’t be here right now,” Martins reminded him, her tone filled with disgust. Luther couldn’t read minds, but he had a feeling of what she was thinking.

 

He was thinking the same thing: _it should have been you/me._

 

“I’m aware.”

 

Luther blinked back his tears as he continued to survey Craig’s grave. He hadn’t expected himself to fall for the gangly brunette, who had sold his soul and loyalty to Red John during his junior year of college. However, it had happened thanks to an accidental collision in the Southern California University cafeteria.

 

Martins sighed softly from next to him. “He wasn’t supposed to die.” Luther couldn’t help but snort. Craig had signed his death certificate the moment he had gotten himself involved with Agent Grace Van Pelt of the Serious Crimes Unit. “If Bertram had done his damned job correctly, Jane wouldn’t have called his bitch.” Not that he’d ever say it aloud to her, but he agreed. Director Bertram had given him the witness reports, both at the cabin and the mall, 24 hours after Craig had been embalmed; and the cabin report confirmed Jane’s phone call to Lisbon had saved the trio from Craig’s hand. “If I were you, Lu, I’d be hell-bent on revenge.” Martins finished, before she added snidely, “but we both know you aren’t cut from the same cloth he or I were.”

 

::::

 

At the high-rise apartment he shared with Craig, everything was suspiciously quiet and dark. On autopilot, he turned a single light on, kicked off his shoes by the doorway and he flipped on the turntable. Taylor Swift filled his ears and he settled himself on the couch, listening to the album Craig had jokingly adopted as the story of their relationship. Humming along to whatever song was playing, Luther kept waiting for the sound of his husband’s voice to echo from the entryway, complaining about either an annoying quirk of Van Pelt’s or a fellow bureau agent, but it never came and so, he cranked the turntable’s volume up another notch. If anyone complained, he’d deal with it then.

 

He grabbed the half-empty bottle of whiskey from the kitchen island, before he retreated into the bedroom he had shared with Craig. On the crème-colored walls with crown molding, oak framed pictures of their real-life remained. He stared at them, as he stole sips from the bottle. Eight years of birthdays, of celebrations, of anniversaries, and of holidays all gone because Grace Van Pelt had fired a gun. They wouldn’t celebrate another wedding anniversary or relationship milestone in their lives, because _Craig O’Laughlin_ was dead.

 

His _husband_ was dead and no amount of bargaining would bring him back. There would be no formal inquiry into Craig’s death; the FBI would eventually investigate, but ultimately, he’d be labeled as an acolyte to a serial killer. The Serious Crimes Unit, on the other hand, would be celebrated for ultimately becoming one step closer to arresting Red John which Luther felt was unjust.

 

Craig’s only provable crime was shooting Teresa Lisbon, which might have forced him to serve at least a year of jail time. The murder of Todd Johnson and Craig’s relationship with Red John however, would have been inadmissible in the court of law, partially thanks to Patrick Jane’s disregard for the law. Any intelligent law official, by just _looking_ at the case report, could have seen the countless misdemeanors that had been committed by the foolish unit. Out of curiosity, Luther had asked what would happen to the unit.

 

Director Bertram had only offered him a coy smile and an accompanying shrug, before he had added, “it’s confidential.” _Confidential_ , he had learned from ADA Osvaldo Ardiles, was Bertram’s codeword for _nothing_.

 

“The Serious Crimes Unit, especially Patrick Jane, is Director Bertram’s golden ticket to running for office,” Ardiles had explained, over coffee. “If Director Bertram punishes Lisbon too harshly, Jane’ll walk; and we unfortunately need Jane, Luther, if we have any hopes of keeping our jobs.” The moment the ADA had turned away, Luther had rolled his eyes. Craig had once said Patrick Jane was a liability waiting to happen. He just hadn’t anticipated on the rest of Jane’s team being a liability waiting to happen either.

 

He swallowed a mouthful of the whiskey with a grimace, as he glanced about the room again. His eyes settled on a photograph Craig had taken, after the duo had spent a good six hours lost in a corn maze. Eyes bright and bodies pressed close to each other, Craig had tackled him into the mess of stalks. Luther’s heart ached for his partner-in-crime, his best friend, and most importantly, his husband.

 

 “Goddamn it, Craig,” Luther muttered to the empty room, the deafening silence having returned once more.

 

They had never actually talked about _it_. Craig had been so certain that he wouldn’t die at a young age and Luther had always been skittish around the subject of death; that the idea of discussing the details of a funeral and subsequent burial had seemed trivial. However, now that he sat alone, he wished that he had tried a little harder to breach the _what-ifs_.

 

Martins’ voice echoed in his head. _“You aren’t cut from the same cloth he or I were.”_

He frowned.

 

So, what if he hadn’t approved of Red John’s asinine philosophy? Or the idea of carnage? Or of _revenge_? Craig had loved him for what he hadn’t been, and Luther wasn’t about the besmirch his image to prove a point to Martins. However, if someone had killed him – he knew, without a doubt, Craig would have chased his killer to the end of the earth.

 

He glanced down at his bottle of whiskey, nearly empty, before he sneered and tossed it at the wall with enough force to completely shatter the bottle.

 

_You aren’t cut from the same cloth he or I were…_

Did it mean he loved his husband any less, because he hadn’t been willing to kill for him? To him, the answer was no. To his husband, on the other hand? Well, it didn’t matter anyway.

 

Because he was _dead_ and those who were dead didn’t get opinions.

 

He glanced upwards at the ceiling and wrapped his arms around his upper torso.

 

It was going to be a long night.


End file.
